


I knew it was over.

by IwillbeReichenbach



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt John Watson, John Watson Whump, M/M, Or not, POV John Watson, Reichenbach Falls, Reichenbach Feels, Sad, Sad John Watson, Sherlock's Death, Suicide, We know he will be back but John doesn’t., Whump, can be read as johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 09:58:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17404787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IwillbeReichenbach/pseuds/IwillbeReichenbach
Summary: When Sherlock jumped from the roof of Barts Hospital, John was watching.  He was right there and his world crumpled the moment his friend hit the pavement.Thanks to the wonderful Sandrina for her encouragement and efforts in improving this.





	I knew it was over.

I knew it was over from the moment I grasped his wrist. I found the pulse point immediately. I knew because I felt the last three weak thrums before he was completely gone. Then there was nothing. Nothing but warm flesh and the stranger’s hands pulling me away.

I sat in the waiting room anyway. Waiting for a miracle that would never come. I hoped for a long wait. I knew the longer the wait the higher the chances were that the medical interventions were working. 

Although I had to admit even that thought scared me. I knew that the chances of a full recovery from a fall from that height were incredibly slim. I tried not to think about the possibilities of acquired brain injuries. I tried not to think what a shattered pelvis or complete spinal injury would have meant to the world’s most active man. I tried not to think about collapsed lungs and ruptured kidneys. I couldn’t help it though; medical training did that to you. I wondered if it would be better for him to be gone than to have to face a life of relearning how to use a spoon, how to walk again or, worse, a life of wheelchair ramps? What if he woke up an idiot? Then I got selfish. Would it be better if he succumbed to his injuries quickly rather than having to face the discussions about when to turn off the life support? I hated myself for thinking these things. 

The wait was short. A nurse asked me to follow her. I was on autopilot. I assumed she would take me to see him. Instead she led me to a small room. I know all about rooms like that one. I’ve used them myself to tell people news that ruined their lives. ‘I’m sorry it’s inoperable,’ ‘despite our best efforts we haven’t been able to save her leg,’ ‘the cancer has spread,’ ‘the diagnosis isn’t favourable’.

The nurse left me sitting in a comfortable chair. The chairs are always deliberately comfortable; I don’t know why they bother. Nothing else is ever comfortable in these rooms. 

I waited there for the inevitable, feeling hollowed out and exhausted.

I heard the door click open and I turned in the chair. I didn’t trust my legs enough to try standing up. I noticed that my hands were shaking. They hadn’t done that in years. 

It was Greg who came to tell me. Not that he needed to use any words. One look at his pale drawn face was enough. If that hadn’t been, then the coat he clutched would have told me everything.

I turned away from the door where he had paused. Shut my eyes. Covered my face with both hands. The only thing that stopped me from crumpling to the floor were my elbows braced onto my knees as I held my head in my hands. I didn’t want to see him at that moment. Why did he have to be the one? That thought was washed away by equal parts of grief and disbelief. 

I didn’t hear his footsteps approach. I couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of my pulse in my ears. What I did notice was his strong steady hand gripping my shoulder. 

I looked up at him. He squeezed my shoulder and handed me the coat. Reverently he draped it across my lap.

“I’m so sorry John.” He muttered.

He stayed with me as my breath hitched and my tears flowed. I held his coat to my chest one handed. It was still warm. I covered my face with my other hand in shame as I sobbed openly.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Greg drove me home. As he pulled up at the curb I realised.

“Mrs Hudson…” 

“I’ll do it.” He offered gently.

It was total weakness, but I agreed. I could have probably told her that he was gone but I knew she would want to know how and why. That I couldn’t have articulated. I couldn’t because I didn’t understand. I couldn’t because of the guilt I felt. I couldn’t because I was there. I spoke to him. I saw him fall.

I wasn’t able to make the keys work. Greg took them from me. When he pushed the door open, I didn’t even pause to take the keys back. I went straight up the stairs. I heard him tap on Mrs Hudson’s door.

When I go to the landing I paused briefly but decided I couldn’t face either the sitting room or the kitchen. I went straight up to my room. 

I toed off my shoes and sat down on the edge of the bed. It was only then that I realised that I was still holding his coat.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Playing it over and over in my mind. It was dark when, with a sigh, I placed his favourite belonging over the chair by my bed and got up to brush my teeth, wash my face and get changed.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I didn’t go into work the next day. I hadn’t slept much, and I felt numb. I wouldn’t have been much use to anybody anyway. They had seen the news. They didn’t ask why when I rang to tell them I wouldn’t be in.

I was too numb to even feel much of anything when I entered the kitchen. Strewn, as always, with his chemistry equipment. I flicked the kettle on. Got down cups from the cabinet. Two of them, as was my habit. The realisation of my actions caused me to go completely still. I shut my eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and returned one to the shelf.

Mrs. Hudson taped on the door frame. She was holding a cup of tea for me. The sight of her tear stained cheeks nearly broke me. 

“You’re sharper than I am this morning. I poured his tea. Even added the milk before I realised what I was doing. I cried while I tipped it down the sink.” She said with a self-depreciating smile. 

I could see tears shining in her eyes again. I flicked off the kettle and went to comfort her. I held her against my chest as she muttered something unintelligible about ‘her sweet silly boy’. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Mycroft visited the next day. Work had rung the previous afternoon and told me they had approved three days bereavement leave for me, so I was home. I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

He announced himself with a single word.

“John.”

I’d been starring at his chair. The word startled me from my stupor.

I rose instantly and faced him. I didn’t bother to soften my habitual military posture. Habit and tightly strung nerves were all that was holding me together. He looked as he always did. Umbrella, stripy suit, emotionless mask.

“I’m sorry about your brother.” I said. It felt lame on my tongue. 

He raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, me too.” He finally said. His face portrayed little emotion.

I didn’t know what else to say. He filled the silence. 

“Sherlock’s funeral will be on Friday. I need to pick up a few things. Closed casket, of course, but a fresh suit would be a nice touch. Would you mind?” He gestured towards his bedroom. I was too shocked to be angry. Later I would wish that I had punched him in the face rather than passing by sullenly.

I picked out a set of clean clothing. I smiled weakly at the sock index, as in a moment of rebellion I went to pluck out the third pair from the left. I couldn’t bring myself to do it though. I replaced my mutinous choice and I grasped the pair of neatly folded socks that were meant to be the next ones worn. 

That made the choice of shirt and suit easy. They also were all set to be his next. I put the shirt, trousers and jacket on a single hanger and packed the pants and socks into a bag. I threw in the half packet of cigarettes that he had been hiding behind the picture of Poe. Of course, I knew about them, you insufferable sod.

I returned to find Mycroft shuffling through the papers on the music stand.

“Bach, Mozart or something original?” He asked me.

I just shrugged. 

“Would you like to say a few words?” He asked.

“Sorry, what?” I responded stupidly. 

“At the funeral.” Mycroft glanced up at me; he looked as if he is questioning my sanity. “Would you like to speak? A eulogy perhaps?” 

I had needed him to spell it out; my synapses were refusing to hurry. 

“I’m not sure I’m qualified, I haven’t known him very long. Perhaps you… or someone else would rather…”

“There really isn’t anyone else.” He said coldly as he continued to riffle through the pages.

“Alright.” I conceded through gritted teeth and scrunched eyes. 

“He has made provisions in his will; you shouldn’t have any trouble with the rent.”

“I don’t want that, I don’t want anything.” I was suddenly angry. Furious with both Holmes brothers.

“It’s not up to me.” 

He plucked the page from the front. Took the clothes from me and headed for the door.

All I could think is ‘that’s it, that’s all you have to say’.

I glanced down at the square leather chair. His coat was draped across it, I’d been meaning to return it to his wardrobe but that felt too final. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to do it. My anger dissipated into exhaustion. Grief. 

“Wait.” I called after Mycroft. He turned back towards me.

“He would want… no he would say that was sentimental and foolish… I want him to be wearing this.”

I picked up the soft dark wool coat one last time. Mycroft nodded. I swallowed my grief as I handed it to him. He ran a finger cross the soft wool.

“Yes, very fitting.” His voice almost hitched as he spoke. 

I could see a hint of emotion threaten to topple his composure for the briefest of moments before he turned away. As he walked out the door, he looked weighted down by the cargo he carried.

I crumpled into my chair. Completely exhausted by the exchange. All I could think about was the funeral. About what I was going to say. What was there to say? I knew practically nothing about his childhood. Practically nothing about his life before I moved in. Should I acknowledge how he died? Why? Did I acknowledge my part in it? Did I talk about the good times, the cases? About Moriarty? About the phone call? 

Then I couldn’t stop thinking about the last time I saw him. I couldn’t get any of it out of my head. His voice floated through me like a spectre.

It’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note? 

Nobody could be that clever.

You could, you were. I was confident of that. 

I invented Moriarty.

I’m a fake.

Not true.

I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the memories. They just kept coming. I knew it was not true. Couldn’t be true. That would make my whole world a lie. 

It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.

Tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.

They didn’t matter. I didn’t care what they thought. You didn’t care what they thought. You never did in the past, why would you start now? 

An apology. 

I don’t need and apology. I need you. 

Goodbye, John.

Suddenly I knew I couldn’t stay in the rooms we had shared for a minute longer. I packed an overnight bag and I fled.


End file.
